The Mad and Wretched
by Ghostly Melody
Summary: When Christine is admitted into an asylum for the mentally ill, the former diva finds that while she might not be the maddest of them all, a ghost from her past may be lurking behind every door...
1. Chapter One

_THE MAD AND WRETCHED_

PART ONE

" _What a mysterious thing madness is. I have watched patients whose lips are forever sealed in a perpetual silence. They live, breathe...the human form is there, but that something, which the body can live without, but which cannot exist without the body, was missing_."

—Nellie Bly

Chapter One

She was mad.

She knew this to be true, though never acted upon it. It wasn't a beautiful madness, one that borne the notes and melodies of the torment of the soul. Nay, it was a madness that consumed upon the frail host with a vicious, eternal tenacity. It ate at the marrow with snapping and spitting jaws, jaws that clamped down and threatened to never release. It was a madness brought on by nothing more than regret and mistakes. Mistakes and regrets. Remorse that could be no more wielded and used to harm as they could be cut down and obliterated.

The doctors that filtered in and throughout her room were no less comforting than the visage she had strung up within. "Hysteria," they hissingly suspected to one another. "But in a case such as this, we must monitor the patient before drawing a conclusion."

And so as she'd writhe and moan and lash out upon the bed, the one that had been purchased and furnished for her head and vessel alone, they'd restrain her. All the while she'd call out his name, his title, as they examined and probed and _invaded_ her. Yet she found the force to abstain from them, to fight back. They were each baffled by the strength she possessed; truly a thing of her size, of her little caliber, was not capable of such ferocity! But then she'd find her teeth connecting with a wrist, and their idiotic, hazy philosophy would be banished by glaring truth.

On one particular evening, while roaming through the soupy dreamlike state, the one she'd heard some call "Cockaigne", she listened to—but didn't see, for she refused to open her eyes—a most unsettling thing.

"...And how long has it been since you two have been...man and wife?" she heard a voice inquire.

"Doctor, I don't see how this is helpful in the slightest—"

"What I am prepared to diagnose her with stems from the sexual nature," the doctor said, "or lack thereof. Therefore, your compliance would be most appreciated."

After a moment, her husband replied. "We've never been...together, at least in such an intimate state you have suggested," her husband replied, baffled and affronted.

"Not once?" The doctor's voice was fringed with laughter.

"No, not once," her husband replied, his voice small and slightly sheepish. "We've been married for a month." He seemed to be defending himself. "And she…well, she began to exhibit...these bizarre behaviors two days after we wed. I've kept her isolated."

"I see," he said. "Just as I suspected: she has hysteria. But it is quite common in women of her age, especially the sexually deprived—"

"She's sixteen!"

"...to be inflicted with such a disorder," the doctor finished. He clucked his tongue, his presence to her suddenly overwhelming and odious. "A girl of sixteen, to be inflicted with such a disease?" the doctor's voice came muffled and vague. "It's a pity, it's a shame. But there are cures."

Then there came again the voice of her husband. Never before had she heard it so frail and tenuous. Had she been lucid, she would have been concerned by its fragility. "T-there are cures for this... _thing_?"

"Yes," the doctor replied. "It's a practice that I've seen performed many times, many times. Some would consider it drastic, but in your wife's case, nothing is too extreme…"

"I would give everything to save her," her husband vowed, though his voice trembled with doubt.

At this, the doctor paused. "Is that so?"

"Yes," her husband urged. "Don't you believe me?"

"It's not that I don't believe you," the doctor assured, his voice cool. "It's simply that these medical procedures may be far too powerful for your young wife's weak constitution."

At this, the limbs of the chair by her bedside scraped across the parquet flooring. It was an awful sound; she flung her little hands to her ears and clamped her fingers, which brushed her pallid, sweating temples, to cease the atrocious noise.

She heard her husband stamped forward. "You're overwhelming her!"

"It was not I who upset her, monsieur," the physician answered, his voice tight and measured. There was a beat. "It was you."

At this, her husband came to an interlude. He exhaled sharply. Through her dark curtain of vision, she imagined him thusly place his palms across his scalp and muse his flaxen locks. His voice was as acrid as a ripened lime. "Do what you must to save her."

"You've made a wise decision." She could practically feel the doctor's malicious grin. "There is an asylum in England, just outside of London. It's a rather old establishment, one that is renowned for treating patients with the utmost care and sensibility."

"I don't care where is it," the younger man urged. "Just assure me that she'll be recover, that she'll return to me sound."

The doctor didn't reply to that; instead, she heard his low heels clack across the length of the floor and draw up a paper. "I'm inscribing here the address of the asylum; if you leave tomorrow night, you should arrive in an appropriate time."

"I'll do whatever it takes," her husband promised. She heard his lank form slip into the bedside chair; then, his perspiring hand coiled round her trembling wrist. She felt their pulses whisper and beat in ill-rhythm—his was fast and staccato, hers oddly sedated and melodic. There was no harmony between them. If only she had realized that sooner. He drew in a breath. "Doctor! Doctor, I don't think her heart is beating!"

The physician came to her side at an alarmingly unassuming and nonchalant pace; she could feel it in the adagio rhythm of his feet. He shooed her husband away. With an elongated sigh, he placed his index and middle fingers against her wrist. He released an airy, unconcerned chuckle; his rancid breath stretched and exasperated across the white hemispheres of her cheeks. "She's alive. However, she is cold as a corpse. I'd suggest having someone change her out of that chemise. It's positively saturated in perspiration. How long has it been since she's bathed?"

Her husband coughed feebly. "I...wouldn't know. I have her lady's maid take responsibility of such a task...when it's necessary, of course."

She heard the doctor cross to the threshold, causing her husband to rise. When the physician spoke, it was not saturated with a benevolence she would have hoped for. "If you act now, she can be helped."

When the door closed, the gilded handle snug and locked, she opened her eyes.

She had not blinked them open in perhaps days. Her brown, glazed eyes absorbed her surroundings, which were illuminated by a trembling, ocher candle at her side. Her lashes fluttered. Grain obscured the embossed ceiling above her—it depicted figures of pallid cherubs and wheeling angels. The marble seraphs loomed closer, grazing the glistening skin of her cheek. She blinked again. The angels vanished, leaving a ceiling fringed in darkness.

She rose from bed, reeling and quavering. It was a process liken to a sailor that had spent a year at sea, when in fact she had only been abed for half of a month. Her arm lashed out to clutch the bedpost nearest her. The gauzy, needless silk slipped hollowly through her fingers. Her limb shuddered. She took two, nauseating steps, which transformed in stumbles, and faced the full-length mirror to her right.

It was the first time she had glimpsed herself in weeks.

And she wasn't entirely sure if she were human.

Wild, obstreperous curls framed the milky globe of head; her chipped, frayed fingernails—so fractured and shred were they by hours of mindless gnawing and fretting—brushed the slope of her neck; blue veins pulsed weakly beneath the pale membrane of skin. Her cheeks, once so merry and healthy and roseate, were sunken and sharp (for the past week, she had refused even a morsel of food from the housekeeper, the maids, even her husband himself). Her lips, once so plump and pink and glistening, were reduced to a cracked, white maw that parted and closed and parted again so uselessly. Her hands lingered at her throat. It was a throat which held a voice that had produced songs crafted by genius, by pure insanity, by perfection.

"Who are you?" she demanded. After a pause, the morbid, withering reflection answered her. It was a singular, rasping strain, borne from a voice that had not spoken for some time. "Who am I? I can tell you this: you may have once looked like her, you may have once _been_ her, but you are no longer Christine Daae..."

 **A/N: I got this idea today while finishing one of my final exams. What was going to be a one-shot turned into this. I hope it'll keep you all interested. I have a vague outline for what's going to happen next.**

 **Reviews are cherished! :)**


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Christine, before her sharp social decline, had read in a lady's handbook (that now she was absolutely certain Raoul had positioned on her nightstand so that she might peruse it and learn) that it was best to keep a facade of perfection for public appearance. This advice, of course, was doing nothing for her nerves. She drummed her trembling fingers against the lip of the windowsill, her eyes wild and full of some distant knowledge neither she nor anyone else in the estate could fathom.

It had been quite the endeavor to situate her downstairs in the parlor; despite her enfeebled limbs, she had put up quite a fight against the butler, the housekeeper, and her spouse. Even as she perched upon the settee by the bay window, her arms thrummed with a residual energy she hadn't experienced in a long while.

"Would Madame care for more tea?"

Christine's shoulders jerked. She twisted her white neck, which was hidden beneath the ecru lace of a high yoke collar—a collar she wished to tear from her flesh rather than flaunt—and parted her lips. "W-what?"

The maid raised her titan brows. The tea tray in her grasp quavered with nerves (for who could feel at ease around such an unwound and wandering girl?) and said, "The Vicomte says that you should be taking tea now."

Christine resisted the urge to snort. She laced her thin arms across her chest, the stiff fabric of her dress rasping with her movements. "I don't care for any tea, thank you."

The maid hesitated. Then, with slow and oblique movements, she placed the ceramic teacup and saucer on the table by Christine's left and stole from the room.

Christine's brown eyes twitched to the cup. She snarled at it, at her warped reflection in the brown, tepid liquid. Her hand lashed out; she snatched the ceramic chalice by the handle and hurled it across the room. It fractured into several sizable pieces, its contents staining the fine Persian rug.

"Christine?"

She glanced up to glimpse Raoul invade the doorway. His narrow shoulders slumped as he absorbed first she, then the tea, and then the stain. He sighed and retreated to her side, wherein he rang a little silver bell. Within moments, a fleet of servants was present to sweep away her shambles. When they had fled, he sat across from her.

He regarded her with languid, red-rimmed eyes. He curled his fists together. "I was reconsidering the plans, you know. But seeing you now...I know that it's going to be for the best."

She remained silent.

A bit of late evening light streamed through the gap in the curtains, illuminating Raoul's hair to a brilliant, yellow glow. Even in his bedraggled and jaded state, he held the cleanliness and elegance of when they had both first convened by the sea.

"Christine…my wife." He reached out and encapsulated her white hands in his. "I'm sorry."

Christine's eyes, which were vacant and hazy, took on a brief and wavering clarity. She felt her fingers twitch. "I know you are."

A flicker of a smile creased his handsome face, causing her heart to flit for a moment. Then, he released her hand and rose. "Your trunks are already in the carriage. I'll have Adeline come and give you your coat."

With that, he retreated from the room. Christine blinked into the dimness of the parlor, her hand curling round the arm of her chair. It would be quite the lie if she confessed that she was going to miss the opulent room, with its extraneous furnishings and expensive things she couldn't even dare to think of breathing on. This life, as she had discovered early on, not the sort of life she was molded or destined for. Indeed, she only required the necessities for human life—shelter, sustenance, love. She was a rugged girl who came from simple origins. For most, finding even a shred of pride in one's humble beginnings was an arduous task; for Christine, finding that pride was as easy as blinking. As she gazed upon the house that she had been forced to call home, she couldn't help but feel a bit of relief meld into the marrow of her bones.

"Miss?"

Christine glanced up, a transparent smile to her face. She stood when the servant came round with her mink wrap, but shrugged herself into the garment, much to the maid's bafflement. With a tilt of her chin, Christine kindly acknowledged the girl and took to the foyer.

Raoul stood at the threshold, his cane in hand and top hat nestled on the crown of his head. He glanced down at his pocket watch. There was a nervous, irregular rhythm to the rapping and tapping of his black shoes. He looked up when she exhaled brittly.

"Christine," he exclaimed, coming forth to embrace her. He guided her arm through his and together they ventured outside toward the coach. He aided her within the heart of the carriage and took a seat across from her. All the while, he kept his stare averted and that foot mad and thumping.

Only when the sun sunk below the horizon and the carriage was swallowed into a bitter, attenuated darkness did she allow her eyelids to close and a dream to overwhelm her.

And when she dreamt, it was of him.

This came as no agitation, no revelation to her. For weeks now, she had been dwelling upon the man she left behind. He had made various appearances in her dreams (and nightmares) before, roving and thrumming and scrutinizing just within the breaching of shadow. On this dream, however, he came to her with an disturbingly magnanimous nature.

His sharp and distinct scent, which she had memorized since the very beginning, was the first thing to smother her. She was meandering through a gray, towering pall, something distant and ambiguous and not entirely earthly. A familiar and lilting song resounded through the distance, curling melodic tendrils across the membrane of her mind.

She could feel his naked hands on her wrist; when her eyes fluttered and gazed into the fog, she saw nothing but that: fog. She carried herself with wraithlike movements; her arms levitated before her as she groped the darkness. She felt herself stumble.

"Steady yourself, Christine," came the echoing hiss of his words. "I shall guide you. Follow the sound of my voice..."

A hollow fear crept into her throat. Despite any logic to pivot round and flee failed to prevail. Instead, an outside impetus propelled her forward. Her feet were practically stardust—light and brilliant and suspended. As his whispering voice transcended her, she surged forward.

The static air began to shift. A great heaviness surrounded her, causing her head to reel with intoxication. She felt her body recoil.

"Focus, Christine!" he barked. "Focus only on me…"

Christine's brows trembled and drew together. She continued, sightless, through the stifling mist. The air began to clear again, and a profound radiance flooded her heart.

She heard his voice as if it were breathing into every crevice of her being. " _Come to me_!"

She took a step forward. Her fingers grazed flesh. All at once, her eyes flew open and she glimpsed the pallid mask that had been haunting her for months.

He was there.

The masked figure loomed above her. A dark, shuddering hand came to rest at her cheek. She gasped despite herself. "You're here?" she questioned. "You're truly here before me?"

The figure's lips twisted up into a cavalier smile, a smile that fractured the very recesses of her soul. "My dear, that is for you to decide."

"Christine?" Raoul's hushed voice severed her thoughts, causing her to jolt awake. She felt the mystical vestiges of her dream tear from her mind, corrode her flesh. She shrieked at the horrid sensation. Her husband lurched forward, his hands snaking around her slender shoulders. He jostled her. "Christine! You must calm yourself! It was but a nightmare!"

As hot, frothing tears scorched across her cheeks and down her throat, Raoul drew her close and cooed into her ear. She didn't weep for Raoul's reasoning, that she was frightened by what the fantasy held. She wept because the dream, and the disillusioned man, had vanished from her grasp.

 **A/N: Reviews are cherished! :)**


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

A drowning rain was in full roar by the the time the de Chagny's carriage came to a shuddering halt in front of the Winchire Asylum.

First came a thin spear of lightning, which illuminated the stark edifice for but a moment; from what little she could see, Christine had already made her deduction: the institution was anything but comely. Encompassed by a great, towering fence, the estate was nothing like neither of them had imagined. Christine's eyes scanned the stone. It was perhaps at least one hundred years old, weathered and pallid. It was if God Himself, ashamed of his creation, had purposely forgotten about the structure, and simply banished it to the wayward folds of an English forest. What caught Christine's eye, however, were the minute details. A sharp shiver cut a current up her spine.

Each of the windows were stagnant. Bare. Aphotic. Not a single candle illuminated the rain-hedged night.

"Driver," Raoul exclaimed above the rumbling thunder. "Driver, is this the proper address?"

"Yes, sir," the man replied. He brandished his little parchment, which held the building's inscription in a watery, melting ink. "It's right here, sir." He passed it to his employer, who scowled.

Raoul took another incredulous look at the imperious establishment. Then, remembering their reason for even being there, he flashed his young wife an encouraging look. "It will only be for a little while, and then we shall be together again soon," Raoul insisted. Tears glazed the blues of his eyes; a sharp claw of lightning glinted across the sky, shimmering in his gaze. "You're here to get better, Christine. This is for the best." He leaned forward to press a watery kiss to her forehead.

Shielded by the sheltering cone of an umbrella, the two alighted from the coach and scurried out into the mire. Christine gasped as a fat droplet of rain exploded across her back. She batted at her eyes; she could not tell if the rain or her own tears resided there.

They reached the great, imposing oak of the door. The monolith which surrounded it was of a gray and fading variety, and brought no life or assurance to their trembling hearts. The couple exchanged a look of doubt. Then, without speaking, Raoul raised his fist to the knocker and rapped thrice. The sound reverberated across the sagging veranda, causing Christine to flinch at the minor, warbling sound of it.

Shoes scuffed from behind the entrance. The door flung wide, spilling forth an unfathomable darkness onto their faces. Christine suppressed a cry.

Their amiable hostess cursed beneath her breath as she sought out a candle. Breathily, she implored their forgiveness. Then, at once, an orange light flared forth and demystified the pallor of the greeter's mein. She swung the taper round toward Christine's face, then to Raoul's. A smile erupted across her thin lips. "Ah! I must beg your forgiveness. You see, we weren't expecting your arrival until late tomorrow morn. But please, come inside. You're very much welcome here."

The pair stepped within, their shoes clacking dimly against the recently-waxed flooring; Christine could smell the acrid, bitter tang of the cleaner upon the base of her tongue. She swallowed a retch.

"You both are probably pondering my origin, given that I do not have any traditional English inflection," the stranger said. Indeed, the question had filtered through Christine's mind, but she did not want to seem impertinent. Their hostess strode a few paces, turning round with a cheerful smile. The train of her dark skirts swished against the floor as the flame swayed and quivered. "My name is Madame Renard, and I am from France."

This caused Christine's heart to swell with relief. Oh, what comfort a common voice could bring! She found her lips twitching upward.

Madame Renard noticed this. She inclined her head toward the younger girl. "You must be Christine Daae."

"She no longer goes by that name," Raoul said, hastily. "She is my wife."

"So, you are the Vicomtesse?" Madame Renard said, a gray brow raised in question. Her long, sturdy face—which, on any other instance, Christine would have called questionably spiteful and pinched—twisted. Christine took a moment or two to study her. Madame Renard had thin, wiry hair of a pewter hue that rose above her head in a frazzled and unskilled bun. Her hands, which were not concealed by gloves, were thin and veiny. They wrapped round the candle holder with a sort of eerie vindictiveness. "Is your voice as good now as it was before your days among the elite?"

"Of course," Raoul said, bristling. "My wife is gifted."

Christine winced, thinking of how she even came about to her degree of talent—for truly, she would be nothing without her former tutor…

That moment of suspicion hung, then passed. Madame Renard smiled. "Delightful! Then you shall be of much use to us!"

While Christine wanted to implore the woman as to what she meant, they were already drifting across the tiled floor and moving to a doorway.

Madame Renard bowed her head toward Raoul, her voice solemn and almost obsequious. "Forgive me, monsieur, but I'm afraid that this is as far as visitors are permitted to go."

"That's ludicrous," Raoul said. He took a firm hold round Christine's arm. "This is my wife. I am to be—"

"Raoul," Christine whispered. She turned her somber, liquid gaze up to Raoul's and said, "We don't want to stir any trouble. I'll be fine. You can let me go."

Raoul hesitated, the groove of his throat working. He began to protest again, but Christine silenced him. Raoul sighed sharply. Then, with a lingering kiss to her cheek, he murmured, "I love you, Christine. I will be back for you, I swear…"

"You are, of course, open to visit whenever the time is scheduled," Madame Renard said, overtly jolly and bright. Her eyes shone brighter than the candle; they did not shine, Christine noticed, with joy.

"Of course," Raoul repeated, his voice hollow and distant. His hand found his wife's, wherein he squeezed briefly. Then, he placed his hat back upon his head, tilted it in submission, and swept from the foyer.

As the door clicked behind him, a silence reigned. Madame Renard fixated her eyes to Christine. Something cold and intense pulsated behind her irises, beating with a raging heat. Her mouth tensed.

Christine clasped her hands. "Madame, I—"

"Silence!" the elder woman bellowed, causing the tapestries in the room to tremble on their hangers. Christine recoiled. A shock rang through her body at such a keen change in the matron. Madame Renard's gray eyes narrowed. "Do you think that just because you are the Vicomte's wife that you shall be treated like nobility? Things are much different behind these walls, and behind them you will be known as who you truly are: Christine Daae." She slammed the taper down upon a table and seized Christine's wrist, the older woman's fingers pressing against the girl's vein, which jarred and quivered madly. With her vacant hand, she pushed open the door and led them both down a dim and narrow hall.

The corridor, which dripped with a substance that was certainly not water, was short and came upon a slender and warped doorway. The woman withdrew a key from the pocket of her apron and opened the door, flinging the threshold as wide as it would permit. "You shall be taking up residence in the Women's Quarters," she spat over her shoulder. "Each female has a roommate; yours is a girl called Alma. The Men's Quarters is along the opposite side of the building." She stopped abruptly, pivoting on her heel. Her eyes probed Christine. "That section of the asylum is locked at night. There shall be no interaction between the men and the women during the nighttime hours. Is that understood?"

When the young girl, whose tongue was frozen, was bereft of a reply, the matron jostled her arm. "Is that understood?!" she howled.

"Y-yes!" Christine yelped. "Yes, madame."

The woman exhaled through her tall teeth, lashing round. They took a left, a broad, dark hall, and then a creaking staircase—Christine's wrist was still in a vice-grasp—and flanked several dozen doors. At the end of the hall, Madame Renard paused. She inspected the number inscribed upon the placard: 217. "This is where you shall be staying. But for now, we must administer you your clothing."

As they strode back down the hall and retreated down (for Christine, it was stumbling, really) the stairwell, her charming and endearing hostess ticked off the doors that they passed. "This is the dining hall. Meals are served promptly at nine o'clock in the morning, and nine o'clock in the evening. Any failure of attendance is punishable. We have an extensive variety of patients here, and the staff and I take our duties with the gravest responsibility." They reached a little room, which was concealed by a long, yellowing curtain. The woman drew back the thin drapery and shoved Christine inside. She slid in after.

Madame Renard retreated to the shelves, rifling through the prim, folded clothes that resided there. She withdrew and shook out a stark, white shirtwaist and skirt. She handed it to Christine with sharp and violent thrusts. "You will be given a fresh change of the exact cut of clothes every morning. You will follow the rules, among which you will memorize at all times. I shall recite them once…"

While the dastardly woman began to deliver her sentence—really, it was like a benediction to Christine!—the girl concentrated on memorization. There were quite a few that were prominent to the girl, such as "no intermingling of sexes after dark"—this one the madame delivered with glaring eyes, and that "all patients must be abed by 10:30 eventide."

The woman paused, regarding Christine with disdain. "For nobility, I expected you to be a bit more...refined."

Internally, Christine bristled at this. Yet something deep within her told her to keep silent, and so with downcast eyes and a trembling mouth she listened, servile, to the older woman.

"Moving on," she rasped, sweeping from the room. "There is to be no outside communication, unless permitted by myself or the head doctor. We monitor each and every letter that we receive and send, so there is no tomfoolery to be had." They passed by a window, which was kept fiercely and obstinately closed. "And there shall be no venturing underground at any times."

They journeyed above to the room, which was beginning to appear more and more like a prison cell to Christine. Madame Renard fished deep within her apron and extracted a ring of keys. She fiddled with each, muttering. At last, she located the one of her desire and plucked it between her gnarled fingers. She jostled the key within the lock, unlatched the door, and stepped aside. She shooed Christine inside.

"I do hope you enjoy your stay with us...Miss Daae," the older woman said, her mouth warping into a hideous grin.

As the door closed behind her, Christine whirled about. She absorbed her surroundings in minuscule degrees. There were two twin beds, pressed up snugly against the opposing walls. The right cot, occupied by a long and rustling form of a woman, emitted a soft and almost practiced snoring. Christine's brown eyes swung to the center. A tiny window, much more suited for a peephole than a dormer, really, allowed a thin band of watery moonlight to shine through. The rain splayed against the glass, lashing and biting. The window was far too high and tiny for Christine to see out of, but if she could, she might have witnessed her carriage—which had been her personal casket that had transported her to her fate—clop grimly and sluggishly away into the bleak night.

Christine clambered into the empty bed, sliding her legs beneath the paper-thin sheets. She closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her. So she sat there for what seemed like millenniums, gazing into the vacuous space and wondering what would lurk beyond the door come morning. She curled her palms around her hands and decided then that there was nothing to do but weep.

* * *

Even through the guise of night, he knew it was her.

As his fingers undulated with the crescendoing rhythm of the rainfall against the wall nearest him, a fervent and scrutable knowledge engulfed his senses. It was electric. It always was.  
In the deepest of shadows, he could sense her. It was like a signal had flourished to life and resounded across his soul; she was second nature to him. He knew it was her. He always knew when it was she and not some unintelligible, lesser mortal disgracing his ken. She was the only thing that mattered.

As his glowing eyes traced her form, which scurried beneath the dour dome of a rain-speckled umbrella, a shameless hunger rooted deep within. A streak of lightning pulsed across the sky. For a brief moment, the light illuminated her like a stage light. She was there, and yet she wasn't; it was as if any former trace of her notable grace and lucidity had vanished like the smoke of a taper. This disturbed him, shocked him.

Thunder brayed; she jolted. She scampered across the sodden lawn and disappeared beneath the veranda, out of sight.

His heart leapt in his chest as a thousand questions whirled like a dervish in his mind. He pushed off from the sill, clothed in that familiar cloak of black, and inhaled the stagnant, medicinal air with starved and heaving gulps. His eyes shuddered close. He replayed the vision of her, a wandering and hapless dissenter who he had thought gone or dead, and stayed his quivering heart.

Indeed, even through the guise of night, he knew it was her.

 **A/N: Reviews are cherished! :)**


	4. Chapter Four

**A/N:**

 **Phanarah- Thank you for the review! Your words mean a lot to me. :)**

 **CupidsArrow17- Oh my goodness, thank you! I'm trying my hardest to keep the work engaging and unique. I haven't encountered any Christine- asylum stories so far, but if I do catch sight of one I'll be sure to read it.**

 **Also, a note in general: I'll try and update as much as possible; I have a lot of priorities with summer assignments for school, and with senior year of high school starting next fall I'm sort of frantic. I really hope that this fic keeps my interest. I mean, I've mapped out a bit so far, and I have a vague idea as to where I'm headed, but I'm hoping that'll be enough to sustain me. I don't have a beta reader for this story, so I'm going off my own critiquing. I hope that this story doesn't disappoint!**

 **As for my drive for this fic...well, I was introduced to** _ **The Phantom of the Opera**_ **when I was 11 years old; since then, my love and passion for my OTP Erik/Christine (truly, this is the one ship that I will root for even when I'm dead, lol) has only grown tenfold. I sadly fell away from** _ **Phantom**_ **in recent years as personal matters took hold. Nonetheless, the ship has always pulsed in the back of my mind, and I have returned to it with a new sense of purpose.**

 **Anyway, that's a tale for another day.**

Chapter Four

The moment Christine woke, she regretted the decision.

Above her, below her, behind—all she could see was gray. Four walls and a floor of gray. It was a dismal, dreary hue, a color she had never relished, a color people applied to rooms when there was little empathy or attention to be found. She sprung from bed, panting and perspiring, and noticed that her roommate slept on. And yet, as she tiptoed across the sliver of the room to glance between the crack in the door, any of her efforts to keep the stranger in repose were futile. For as soon as Christine's feet made the first round of tiny and ginger slaps against the tile, the sheets roused and girl began to mumble.

Christine cursed the roommate's sharp hearing, cursed her own disregard. She spun round just as the form on the bed began to sit erect.

The lower half of the girl's face was utterly awash in a distinct and drowning blackness; her eyes, a perforating blue, regarded Christine with a wary clarity. Her fair brows shriveled. A gasp flew from the girl's throat and she leapt from bed. "You _must_ be Christine Daae, the famous singer! Oh, I've heard so much about you!"

What struck Christine first was not the girl's sudden proclamation, or the absurdity of their encounter. Nay, it was something else entirely.

To a well-bred girl of decorum and years of genteel breeding, a deformity of any sort would have rendered the viewer into shock and disgust; to Christine, the stranger's definitive harelip was nothing more than a faint abnormality. Christine was no stranger to defects. They did little to rouse any fear in her anymore; never again would she shy away from another's physical fault or error. Even so, the other girl drew her hand to her mouth, concealing her harelip, and said, "My apologizes. My name is Alma…" she trailed off as she studied disheveled Christine's appearance with unflinching eyes. "Was I wrong in my assumption of your identity? Are you... _truly_ Christine Daae? You look rather different in the photographs in the newspapers..."

At this, Christine couldn't restrain a laugh—it was rusty and gravely, her voice hoarse from underuse—but a chortle nonetheless. She nodded. "Yes, yes I am Christine. But I am married now, you see, to…"

"Oh, yes! You are the _Vicomtesse_ now!" Alma blurted out. "Forgive me. I had only heard of the news through...through the grapevine, if you will. I have several friends here who are avid lovers of the arts, and receive news of the theatre through letters and such." By this time, the girl's eyes were gleaming with an ardent joy. "My dream is to visit the Opera Populaire in Paris!"

A silence drew out. Christine cleared her throat, brows quirked. "Y-you all haven't heard, then? Of the current state of the Opera Populaire?" Though hot tears stung and pricked at the hollows of her eyes, she swallowed fiercely and preserved.

"No," Alma exclaimed. She removed her hand from her lip, where her fingers rested at her side. "How do you mean?"

"Well, the theater burned down about a month ago...it's in shambles, now, or at least I'm assuming," Christine rasped. Her eyes flickered close as she fought a wave of nausea.

"Oh!" Alma cried out. "That's...dreadful."

"Yes," Christine echoed. "Dreadful." All at once, like many times before, she heard _his voice_ , the last vestiges of song that had resounded throughout the cavernous walls of his home, his domain:

" _It's over now, the music of the night_!"

Never before had she heard such anguish, such torment and heartbreak pour from a singular soul until that moment. When she had heard it, she had yearned to snatch the oar from Raoul and return back, recant her decision and beg her angel for forgiveness. But the boat was surging, and her maestro's voice was fading, and the chamber was disappearing from sight…

Christine's eyes flew open.

Alma regarded her curiously. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Christine gasped out. "I'm fine." Though she felt anything but.

Then there came a rapping at the door, and a leaden voice instructing them to hasten pace to the dining hall for the morning meal. Alma, gasping, flung herself beneath the bed, collected a few hairpins which resided there, and gathered up her hair into a neat chignon. She paused in front of Christine, her breathing ragged. "You're not startled, then? By my deformity, I mean?" the girl asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Christine took a moment to study her: she was about the same height as Christine, with a head of glossy, flaxen hair and pallid cheeks. Society could have deemed her beautiful, if not for that harelip she was so ashamed of.

Christine laid a gentle hand to Alma's shoulder. "No. It's not startling at all. In fact, I quite like it."

At this, the girl's split lip curved into a smile. A choking, relieved laugh exploded from her frail chest and poured out into the room. She grabbed Christine by the hand, pushed open the now unlatched door, and scurried out into hall. The corridor was vacant, save the occasional flicker of a lamp upon the wall. Alma's brows clouded in misery. "Oh, dear! We're late! I do pray that Madame Renard won't catch wind of our tardiness…"

"What? That shrew of a lady? She's quite harsh, but I don't think she'd—"

"Don't speak so insolently of her!" Alma begged, halting. She reeled round on Christine. "She is practically God to us! She sees all, hears all, _knows_ all!"

"Aren't you being a bit melodramatic?" Christine asked, her voice trembling despite the farce of lightness she'd drawn up. She let Alma lead her down the hall, their scuffed slippers clicking a bit wildly against the polished tile. _Always polished_ , Christine thought. _Always spotless and bereft of a single stain_ …

"Oh, no!" Alma said, her doe-like eyes wide and forewarning. They paused at the stairwell, the other girl's body quivering with trepidation. In the dim light, she looked every bit the rabbit. "She's done unspeakable things, miss...unspeakable things…"

"Like what?" Christine found her body gravitating closer as Alma's voice lowered to a whisper.

The golden-haired girl shook her head. "I can't say." She tugged her companion along the stairwell. Spires of long, ebbing shadows cast their black fingers across the walls, lending the environment to its well-deserved macabre. When Alma spoke again, her voice reverberated down, down, _down_ the endless staircase, lost to the seething and roiling gloom. "It's not all bad here, though. When you're put in a place like this, you meet people who are like yourself…" the girl paused, her free hand hovering on the chipped railing. She grinned. "In fact, there are certain people here that almost seem to know your soul entirely."

As the stairs above them grew impossibly high and thin, Alma led Christine out into the main hall. A nurse shuffled by with a trolley of surplus vials and pills. She paused. When she turned, cart wheels squealing to a halt, she perceived the blond with a look of recognition "Miss Croft! You're going to be late for the morning meal!"

"Yes, I know," Alma replied. "I didn't wake with the dawn, and—"

The nurse interjected with a look of disdain toward Christine. "And who is this?"

Alma's hand tightened around Christine's. "She arrived her last night, she..."

"At present, I go by the name of Christine Daae," the girl in question said, casting a gentle look to her newfound friend. "At least, that's what I was instructed to call myself."

With a look of obvious doubt, the nurse retrieved a clipboard, which rested on a hook at the front of the cart, and rifled through the pages with a raised brow and a bout of fluctuating murmurs. Her finger levitated for a moment; her eyes snapped back to Christine. "Ah, yes. Christine Daae. It states here in this document that you were due for your prescription of medicine this morning."

"Medicine? What sort of medicine?" Christine queried, feeling her pulse begin to surge.

"That is classified," the nurse spat, returning the clipboard to the hook with a small clatter. "After breakfast, I'll bring round your medicine to your room."

"You best not argue with her," Alma advised as they continued down the hall. "Or anyone for that matter. They do quite the questionable things to people who disregard orders…"

"I wish you wouldn't be so cryptic," Christine said. "It's driving me rather mad."

At this, Alma issued Christine an almost sympathetic look. Then, she snared Christine's wrist in her grasp and guided her through a set of wide, adjoining doors. The threshold led to what she perceived to be the dining hall, for there, crowded about the room, sat a hundred or so people, hunched or crowing loudly over their meals. As the door hissed behind the pair, those hundred or so eyes shifted and glared. An undulating murmur erupted like a shockwave across the vacuous space, sparking and writhing like electricity. As the set of girls passed through the rows, which Christine noticed were compact and not designed for any sort of comfort, a hand snaked out to brush against Christine's wrist. Then there came another, and another—hands and fingers and nails, all vying to inspect the unwilling newcomer. Christine let out a cry. Alma batted them away, her smile brittle and fading. She drew Christine closer, and together the two retreated to a corner.

"Am I a novelty?" Christine inquired sharply as the sat.

Alma, who had by then been wolfing down the meal's meager offerings of bland toast and diluted eggs, eyed Christine sheepishly and said, "Well, you see, about a week ago there was a rumor that a famous soprano from France would be among us. And, I suppose they were all quite anticipating your arrival…" she cast her striking blue gaze out across the diners; those with enough gusto dared tiny glances in the pair's direction. Christine watched as Alma extended a pale hand, her fingers wagging.

"Who are you waving to?" Christine asked, twisting her neck half-heartedly.

"A friend," Alma responded. There was a hypnotized lilt to her voice, cloying and wreathing, a tone that struck a nerve in Christine. She swallowed roughly.

Christine's lashes fluttered as the walls encompassing them began to ripple and contract; a fine sweat flared across her brow. "W-who are you talking about?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?" Alma offered sweetly, nodding in the general direction of her supposed friend.

And so, as the world around her began to dwindle into nothing, and the lights above grew ten times too bright, Christine pressed her perspiring palms to the lip of the table and craned her body. She gave a hitching gasp, and her eyes widened at the sight of the man she thought was dead.

 **A/N: I don't know if this was clear before, but I've made my story based off the ALW movie version (I may slip in allusions to the other forms, as well—in fact, that was my original intent; I just wanted to state this in case there are any questions or concerns.**

 **And, as always, reviews are cherished. :)**


	5. Chapter Five

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! They keep me going. :)**

Chapter Five

Upon his hasty return to the estate, Raoul made it imperative that he visit Christine's room.

She'd requested they slumber in separate beds—at the time, he had rationalized that she was still perturbed by the fiery events that had jarred the entirety of Paris. But now, as he scaled the richly carpeted steps and paced the murky hall to the last room on the right, he couldn't help but think that her request was due to an entirely different reasoning. His hands clenched with rage.

When they'd discussed her "reasoning", before she became so deranged, that is, he'd struck the point that it would be expected of him to bear an heir (preferably a male scion). She became quite upset, wound up in a fit of hyperventilation and tears. While childbearing was, "not urgent at the precise moment", as he'd quickly assured her, he'd insisted that it would be within _everyone's_ best interests that they bed together. This had no impact on her. And so, with a frown upon his face and a weary shake of his head, he'd instructed the servants to lay out an additional bed in the unfurnished room at the apex of the corridor.

With prostate eyes he regarded the space. It was detailed with the latest Gothic furniture and style—glimmering gaslights, cherry wood sideboards, flowing lace curtains. He had given her everything she could ever want...except for her music.

Music had been done away with, tossed to the side like last month's fashion magazine. As the Vicomte's wife, she was expected to radiate with genteel grace and charm, like all the other wives of the nobility, who had given up their own debutante lives to an eternity of quiet fan-waving and teacup-bearing; music was a seldom force, faintly imbued only at galas and listened to from afar. But she had happily chosen this life, hadn't she?

... _Hadn't she_?

And yet, he'd witnessed the somber, yearning pain in her eyes when he'd rowed them away from the hellish lair of the Phantom, and again glimpsed the very look when they were out a week later for a late luncheon. The waiters had been every patient and courteous toward his partner's numb state, wherein they erecting a small, clothed table outside for them to dine upon. Earlier that day, it'd been an arduous task to pry her from bed—pry her from that hollow, expressionless mask she wore. He'd seen the mask fracture, however, as a small band played merrily upon the corner of the street; she leaned ever-so-slightly over her wine, a smile faintly pressed to her lips, her elbows drawn close, and her breathing melodramatic and wistful. It was the look Christine gave whenever there was music. He'd seen it before, when she'd been enraptured beneath that devil Phantom's song. Then her full mouth began to work as she recited something incoherent. Lyrics, perhaps. A fleeting, lovely clarity had glowed from her brown irises; he'd wished to ensnare the emotion and thrust it upon some other occasion, like those stuffy soirées she dreaded so. Then, catching his quizzical stare, Christine had blushed a shameful beet-red and retreated behind her mask. But it didn't matter, for the band was packing up, and the dazzling daylight was swallowing the spectacle whole, and the depression had settled back into her bones. And the music was no where to be found.

And the lack of music...that was something he couldn't amend. That was something he didn't _want_ to amend.

For where there was music, there was sure to be the Phantom.

Raoul sighed sharply, snapping back to the present. He strode across the room to the bed, which was stripped bear of its duvet and sheets. He splayed a hand across the pillow; he imagined then her head, her mused brown curls, and the fitful manner in which she slept. _Always_ slept! Ever since she had arrived, that was all she did—wander endlessly through some nonsensical twilight, always far from his grasp.

 _Perhaps Christine truly did belong to her Phantom._

He dismissed the thought quickly, snapping up and adjusting the prim buttons of his waistcoat. He smoothed his hair. He looked about the room, paced, sat, did anything to distract himself.

It just wouldn't be right. Prying was out of decorum.

And yet…

And yet he found his body surging forward, his hands gripping the bottom drawer of the nightstand, found his hands shuffling through papers, found his fingers clasping round a Bible. Her Bible. The one article of literature she had subsumed herself into since arriving. Before everything, she had been an avid reader—he'd stuffed her shelves to the brim with volumes, novels, epics...yet, this was the sole work she turned to in her gray hours.

Raoul thumbed through a few pages, his brows quirking curiously on some passages she'd bookmarked. Most of them revolved around music; with a lip curled in discomfort he flitted through those. He proceeded through the thick walls of text, about to relinquish the book when something caught the rim of his finger.

He paused.

Slowly, carefully, he cleaved open the spine to the makeshift bookmark she'd placed within the folds. He stifled a gasp, for it was no ordinary bookmark.

It was a pressed rose; wrapped round its stem was a black, silk ribbon.

Raoul fought viciously against the ascending bile in his throat. He slammed the book shut. His mind replayed the taunting image, over and over—the black glinted back at him maliciously in a silent mocking blow. He took the book in one trembling fist, sheathed it beneath the stack of papers, and slammed the drawer shut.

Oh, God.

She was not free.

Raoul swallowed. He spilled onto the hall, not seeming to care when he neglected to lock the door behind him. His hand hovered on the first knick in the wooden banister of the stairs when a knock came from the foyer.

Then there was the rushing swell of servant's heels, the cursing as the housekeeper dropped her tray. As he heard her bent to retrieve it, Raoul scurried down the steps and paused at the threshold of the parlor to observe inside the foyer.

The door hissed open, carrying with it the residual patter of rain. Two slender figures admitted themselves; the taller shadow of the two wrapped a sturdy hand round the smaller one's shoulder. It was a protective and maternal gesture.

"Madame Giry and Meg Giry to see you, monsieur," the housekeeper announced upon stepping into the foyer. She caught her master's eyes with a startled expression composed of widened eyes and batting lashes. When he failed to respond, she repeated the vile names.

"Tell them I am going out on business," Raoul snapped, adjusting the cuffs of his morning coat.

The housekeeper nodded, ducking back into the foyer. When she returned, her face pinched. "My apologizes, monsieur, but your guests will not take 'no' for an answer."

Raoul let out a hiss of a growl, swiping a hand through his hair. "Very well. Admit them." As she strode away, he called out, "And have Amelie bring some tea, for God's sake." He paused. He settled into the divan, which was directly adjoining the spitting fireplace, and said, "On second thought, have her make that a brandy..."

When the mother and daughter entered, Raoul kept silent and blank. He didn't bother to rise, as decorum begged. Instead, he planted his chin to his fist and kept his stare imperious.

"I see you are truly hard at work with... _business_ ," Madame Giry noted coldly, her eyes roving the length of his informal coat. "Won't you implore us to sit?"

Raoul's smile was wan and bitter. He stood rapidly, harshly. "Of course. Whereever _have_ my manners fled to? Please, mademoiselles. Sit."

As his guests sat, a maid entered from a pocket door. She bore a silver, glinting tray in her right hand and a trio of snifters in her right. She placed the tray upon a glass table and prepared the drinks with a severe fastidiousness.

"Thank you, Amelie," Raoul said as the maid—who was just a bit older than Christine, he recalled—pressed the cold glass into his palm. She gave a swift nod, her eyes gleaming, and retreated behind the pocket door.

Madame Giry observed the scene, amusement roiling in her stare. She gripped Meg's hand. "Where is Christine?"

Raoul took an elongated drag, shuddering contently as the liquor burned a boiling, moist finger down his throat. "Why do you care to know?"

"She's my companion, in case you've forgotten," Meg Giry piped up from her seat on the settee. "And I'd like to know her whereabouts. It's been so long since we've spoken."

"Ah, but shouldn't the two of you be caught up in your affairs of serving your Monsieur Phantom?" Raoul bit wryly, draining his glass with a sneer.

"Non. We haven't seen the Maestro in weeks," Madame Giry said. "Since the night of the blaze, in fact."

"The inferno, you mean," Raoul remarked dryly. Upon noting that his humbling guests had yet to touch their glasses, he, (rather boorishly, he knew), snagged one and suckled greedily upon the rim. The fiery drink sloshed between his lips and swirled through his strong, aristocratic teeth. "Where are you two staying, then?"

"In a rented flat outside the city," Madame Giry replied vaguely. Her stern, coiled neck craned about him. "Now, for the final time, where is Christine?"

"She's none of your concern," Raoul said. "Not since you betrayed me."

" _Monsieur_ ," Madame pressed, a sigh curbing her speech. "Surely you must know that my loyalties are with the Maestro. How could I defy him?"

Raoul, now surely tipsy, slammed his glass down upon the table flanking his right and, thrusting an accusatory finger at them both, shouted, "Ah-ha! So you _admit_ betrayal to me!"

Madame Giry eyed him with a concoction of disdain and superiority. The drink had given him an annoyingly sharp tongue. "How can I betray a person I never once followed?"

Raoul countered her defiant smirk with one of his own. He raised his glass, the orange color of it in watery matrimony to the flames that danced beside the trio.

"If you shall not reveal anything, monsieur, than I'm afraid Meg and I must be on our way," Madame said. "But rest assured, we shall return."

"You shall be dearly missed," Raoul said, taking an everlasting draw on his brandy. " _Au revoir_." He raised a hand in a slow, sloppy arc of a wave and then returned it to his fastly-draining drink.

"I don't know what ghost is consuming you, Vicomte, but your behavior is rather distasteful." Madame Giry stood, her gloved hands clenching at her sides. She glowered at him, her face a sooty impressionist painting of loathing and incredulity. She eyed his brandy again. "Too much drink shall go to your gut." She snaked her hand round Meg's, who was by then glaring fervently, and whisked them both away from the parlor and out into the chilly night. The door clapped behind them as a streak of lightning shattered the shell of the sky. Raoul watched through the bay window as they drew up their cape hoods, glanced a final, vindictive time in his direction, and shambled out into the starless night.

And with that, the darkness devoured them whole.

* * *

It was well past midnight as Amelie strode down the hall, a bundle of clean-pressed trousers in her hands; so engrossed was she in her task that she nearly missed the fine, minute detail that betrayed any semblance of orderliness: the Vicomtesse's door, ajar.

She was a studious girl. She rather detested anything soiled in the slightest degree. It was just the way her mother—who had been employed in the household as a maid before her untimely death five years earlier—had instilled upon her. _My dear, sweet Amelie,_ her mama had murmured, _cleanliness is next to Godliness_. So, when the cracked door caught the deep browns of her eyes, she couldn't help but set down the Vicomte's trousers (which she had scrubbed till they practically glowed), tiptoed down the hall, and pressed open the door.

At first, there was nothing she noticed that would give any sign of disturbance. For illusion's sake, everything was in its place. In fact, she was about to close to the door and resume her task when a sound, not unlike a man's desultory and haunted murmurs, rose up from the four poster bed. Perplexed, she inched closer. Her fluttering heart drowned out the noise of her breathing; she didn't hear the door sigh to a close behind her.

As she stepped closer, she identified the sleeping form to be that of the Vicomte himself. He was clothed till the waist, face down upon the bed with a shudder curdling his spine. In his right fist he clenched the brandy snifter. The much-loved glass dribbled a thin, intermittent stream of alcohol onto the floor—a stain that Amelie would have to purge the fine carpet of come dawn. She continued to watch him, her eyes probing and wild.

She'd never before seen a man's naked chest; it was sort of a taboo. The unfamiliar glory of it, slender and muscled and tanned, caused her heart to thrum against her ribs. She drew in a shaky breath. From afar, she'd always admired his grace, the cordial and congenial way in which he acted toward her. Indeed, Amelie was rather dumbstruck that his wife had little yearning to be with the Vicomte—she'd heard the lady of the house mumble to herself, cry out another's name in her sleep. Amelie was no fool. It was evident that her mistress desired another.

How, then, did the two come to wed in the first place?

Her master began to stir, a bout of incoherencies falling and ricocheting from his moistened lips. Amelie leaned closer—so close his heady breath tickled her cheek—as a foreign, welcomed heat gathered at the center of her belly.

He was murmuring his wife's name; the sound was strained, befuddled. As he muttered in his slumber, his hands groped. Clawed. Trembled. His fingers latched onto the exposed skin of Amelie's wrist.

Amelie gasped. She'd never known her heart to pound so fiercely! _She shouldn't be here, not like this! This was not her room, not her husband, not her—_

The Vicomte's eyes fluttered open.

Amelie cried softly, withdrew her hand from his tightening grasp, and bolted for the door. The handle was slick in her sweating grasp. She cursed aloud as the brass fumbled. The Vicomte began to stir, began to mutter more vociferously. And then Amelie, with her heart shrieking in her ears, at last wrenched the door free and stumbled out into the thickly silent hall.

As she gathered the abandoned pile of clothes and continued at a trembling pace down the stairs, she assured herself that he wouldn't recall her presence in the morning, and that fleeing the scene was within their best, shared interests.

And yet, as she descended the final, creaking step, why did the desire to clamber into that bed beside him persist in her mind?

 **A/N: Things are beginning to get a little...interesting. Sorry for mimicking more of the LND Raoul. I couldn't resist…**

 **Reviews are always cherished! :)**


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